Wherein Crowley Meets - Well, Crowley
by thefriendlyguy63
Summary: The title pretty much explains this one. As Anthony Crowley and Aziraphale chill in their usual meeting place, a strange call takes the demon away. Chaos ensues as he ends up not exactly where he should be. Supernatural Crowley is future Good Omens Crowley, if that makes sense at all. (Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or the authors of Good Omens, or any of the characters.)
1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale and Anthony J Crowley perched on their usual chairs at their usual table at the Ritz. It was a dark and stormy night, which really set the tone for them. Aziraphale loved lightning; he found it truly fascinating, whereas Crowley was, admittedly, rather terrified of it. This did amuse Aziraphale, what with Crowley being a demon and all, however the angel was reluctant to show it, as it would be extremely obnoxious of him, and he figured it would put a significant dent in their relationship, which was the last thing he wanted.

Following the recent (narrowly averted) Apocalypse, the angel and demon did remain as strong friends as ever, if not stronger – both entities did feel an undeniable connection and slight urge for something more than platonicness, yet they were generally indifferent to sexuality. Therefore, the two more-than-friends-yet-less-than-lovers plodded through life in their usual daily (or weekly, or whatever-ly) routine, which included Crowley attending to – well, more threatening, really – his house plants in his comfortable little flat, and contacting every vaguely talented mechanic in order to fix up his Bentley, Aziraphale taking cover in an abandoned, boarded-up apartment and turning it into another bookshop, due to his previous beloved shop being burned because of a combination of that idiot Shadwell, bloody Metatron keeping the phone line open, and, yes, his own stupidity, then the two occasionally (though more often nowadays) meeting up beside the same old duck pond with sort of stale bread for said ducks, and finally finishing with them catching up in their favourite restaurant.

Of course, since Crowley was certainly in Beelzebub's bad books, and, as an oddly similar parallel, Aziraphale was equally in Metatron's (and God's, and angels in general) bad books, they both had to lay low. Fortunately, they had succeeded in doing so as of yet; no sign of Hastur coming through the telephone – Crowley tried his best to avoid such electronics, however Aziraphale had purchased a new-fangled mobile for him, though he didn't understand why – and also no signs of divine intervention to retrieve Aziraphale. Well, at one point, a suspicious group of maggots began munching on Crowley's precious plants, so he had no choice but to throw them all out and get new plants that were less likely to get chowed down on, but nothing out of the ordinary had happened to his angel.

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><p><strong>AN:**

'**Sup. Sorry, this isn't actually the fanfic I'd planned to post straight after my 'Bad Parenting' fic (I touched briefly on that in my author's note in the final chapter of said fic, but will be posting it very soon, I promise), however I recently read 'Good Omens' and ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT! Seriously, it's the best book I've ever read, and believe me when I say I've read some hella great books. So, naturally, I couldn't resist writing a fanfic on it. Plus, one of the main characters is a demon called Crowley, so they basically handed a crossover fic with Supernatural to us writers on a fancy plate decorated with awesomeness and a hint of gayness too. Anyway, I took inspiration for this fic from a fic called 'Old Acquaintances' by Khoshekh42, who writes great fics by the way. I'm sorry if you haven't read 'Good Omens' yet, but please do. Just stop whatever you're doing right now, leave your home or wherever you are, stroll over to your nearest bookshop and buy it. Thank you. And if you have read it, do enjoy the rest of this fic. **

**P.S. Forgot to mention, the chapters will be much shorter in this fic rather than longer like in my previous ones – I find it provides easier reading and is definitely far less exhausting to write.**


	2. Chapter 2

"So, uh, how has your time in hiding been?" Glancing anxiously up at the faux nonchalance-expressing demon, Aziraphale inquired after him, naturally permanently concerned about what he had been up to. It was rather difficult for the angel to stare directly into his friend's eyes, as the omnipresent feature of Crowley's conspicuous sunglasses obscured his yellow eyes and vertical slits that he had for pupils, which was probably for the best; Aziraphale would never admit it, but Crowley's eyes were a constant reminder of his demonic nature, which perturbed the somewhat more celestial being. Oblivious to the profound thoughts of his acquaintance, the demon replied as casually as he could, secretly pleased that Aziraphale was genuinely asking after his well-being.

"Well, you know, just the usual…" He trailed off, maintaining an almost apathetic tone as he neglected to mention his continued sneaky endeavours that caused humans to create yet more misery for one another, such as manipulating the traffic on a motorway (when he was well out of the way, of course – the last thing he wanted was his beloved Bentley getting trapped between a congregation of horrendously less beautiful vehicles, especially since it had been newly renovated), which caused many humans to be significantly more disgruntled; traffic is a bugger, after all. That was one thing humans, demons and angels alike all agreed on – not that angels travel by car often, certainly not by choice anyway but I digress. As Aziraphale squinted his eyes suspiciously at Crowley, the demon spoke up in return in order to tactfully steer the conversation away from his misdemeanours.

"How's your new bookshop coming along? Not many customers, I trust?"

"Naturally. That is, of course, part of my personal ineffable plan." The demon couldn't help but smirk at his angel's inevitable use of their collective favourite member of vocabulary. However, before either of them could say another preferential or regular word, a _Queen_ song promptly erupted from Crowley's suit jacket pocket. It startled them both, the demon in particular, as he still wasn't used to being in possession of a mobile, yet he did harbour an acute adoration for gadgets. After pausing for a moment and glancing over to Aziraphale, as if silently asking for permission to answer his call, Crowley reached a manicured hand to the inside of his tailored suit.

"Yes?" The demon asked with a false confidence, given away by the slight tentativeness in his voice. A strange voice emanated from the mobile phone, which was far too loud, as if the person on the other end didn't think that form of technology was doing its particular job or something.

CROWLEY.

"Oh, bugger…" Crowley muttered under his breath. The person on the other end of the phone, the voice of whom the demon recognised immediately heard his curse, yet chose to ignore it, while Aziraphale simply gazed confusedly and worryingly (he had a right to be concerned, judging by the expression on his friend's face) at him. No one spoke for the next few moments, but eventually, the voice on the phone emitted sound, forcing his words upon the demon through a metaphysical wall of static due to the technological way of Hell attempting to make contact.

LONG TIME NO SEE OR SPEAK, CROWLEY. THAT IS OF COURSE YOUR FAULT. YOU WERE QUITE DIFFICULT TO TRACK DOWN, CROWLEY. HASTUR WAS THE ONLY ONE WILLING TO ATTEMPT SUCH A TASK.

"And I assume he failed spectacularly?" Knowing he was done for, no matter what he did or said next, Crowley decided that he had nothing to lose in answering back, therefore maintained his general sass. The voice made no comment on the demon's semi-rhetorical question, instead continuing his narration of events, which could also be interpreted as personal insults to Crowley, in his usual monotone.

YOU WILL BE PUNISHED FOR YOUR EXTENDED VACATION FROM HELL, CROWLEY. BUT JUST NOT IN THE WAY YOU EXPECT. HAVE FUN, CROWLEY.

Before Crowley even had chance to reply or make another sarcastic comment, he disappeared.


	3. Chapter 3

It was that simple. One minute, Crowley was there, and the next, he was gone. Just like that. No flashing lights, no thunder and lightning, no booming heavenly (or hellish) voices. The last glimpse that Aziraphale caught of his friend was his anxious expression due to the person he was speaking to on the phone, and the conversation they were holding. The angel glanced nervously around for a few precious seconds, realising that everyone in the Ritz had been far too absorbed in conversation or eating to even have noticed the demon's abrupt departure, before crouching down to pick up the mobile phone that had been abandoned on the floor beside Crowley's chair.

"Crowley, dear? Are you there?" Tentatively stage-whispering into the phone, Aziraphale began to feel the sour, urgent push and pull of extreme concern churning in his stomach. Being a celestial creature, the angel tended not to feel most human emotions, except when his dear slightly-more-than-a-friend was in potential danger. When no answer was emitted from the receiver, Aziraphale simply hung up (which didn't improve the situation one bit; in fact, it was the worst possible thing he could have done) and leaned back in his seat for another minute in order to contemplate the recent events. Eventually, he grabbed his overcoat from its usual place – dangling limply from the back of his chair –placed it on his shoulders and swept out of the restaurant in one fell swoop, with the almost mocking tinkle of a bell accompanying him as he exited.

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><p>Dean Winchester sat in the most comfortable and familiar place on Earth (and Heaven, Hell and Purgatory, of course): the Impala. Both his hands lay on the steering wheel as some classic rock played – TNT by ACDC, naturally – and his little brother was seated beside him, his head gradually nodding to one side as he began to drift off to sleep. The brothers had been taking turns in driving on the road for twelve hours straight, with the exception of breaks for food or just to stretch their legs, therefore were both tired out. However, it was currently Dean's turn to drive, so Sam figured he should catch some shut-eye while he had the chance. Just when the older brother was getting back into the 'zone' by concentrating on the road ahead, one of their many mobile phones started emitting a tinny ringing from the back seat. Usually, Dean kept such technology in the glove compartment in the front; however their last hunt had finished rather abruptly, with the brothers having to flee the scene from a particularly irritated sheriff who they had crossed paths with while exorcizing an especially tricky demon, therefore the older Winchester had carelessly thrown the phone in the back. Pulling over in the next lay-by on the highway, being careful not to wake Sammy up, Dean reached into the back seat, flipped open the phone (the hunter was still fairly stuck in the '90s way of life) and pressed the answer button.<p>

"Hello?" The Winchester was reluctant to start off the conversation, as he always forgot which alias certain phones were registered under. But no one answered. Not from the other end of the line, at least. Instead, a strange whisper, almost like a chant, emanated from the back seat.

"Please don't be the fourteenth century, please don't be the four- Oh!" As soon as Dean noticed the extremely out of place figure perched awkwardly on the edge of the leather-clad seat, he yelled his brother's name aggressively, clutched the hilt of the demon-killing knife that was constantly protruding from his inside jacket pocket and prepared to stab their unwelcome visitor. Said visitor was very odd indeed. He wore a plain black suit, complete with straight black tie, yet wore a blood-red shirt under it. Snakeskin coated his feet in the form of classy shoes, yet the most prominent accessory of his was the sunglasses that adorned his face. He had pale skin and dark hair that was partially slicked back, with a few straggly strands, and he had good cheekbones. When he was initially whispering, his eyes were screwed shut tightly – well, they couldn't actually be seen because of his sunglasses, but that's how they looked. Then, the moment he realised he wasn't where he thought he was, they popped open instantly as he gaped in shock at his surroundings. Knowing the make of the car in which he found himself (it was a fairly useless yet occasionally helpful demonic power), he couldn't resist commenting.

"Wait a second… This isn't a Bentley!"


	4. Chapter 4

"Who the hell are you and how the hell did you get in my car?!" The older brother blurted out, a combination of infuriated – because some random person, who was evidently a demon or angel, had just materialised in his beloved Impala and would leave his dirty stench (though the man didn't smell too bad… not in a weird way or anything) all over his car – and extremely perplexed – how did this man even get in the Impala when it was fairly well demon-proofed? (Dean had just automatically assumed the man was a demon by this point, since it wasn't the first time one had spontaneously popped up in the back seat of his car) – which wasn't the best tasting cocktail of emotions. On hearing his brother yell so aggressively, Sam jolted awake from his temporary nap and twisted back and forth, bleary-eyed, in his seat, also wondering what the hell was going on. In response to Dean, the strange man simply glanced around distantly, spouting an odd jumble of phrases that were not at all related to Dean's question.

"Well, the interior's rather nice, I must admit… I get the feeling this one's been rebuilt at some point as well as mine… Oh, I see you have a few cassette tapes – hopefully they aren't all _Queen_ records. Then again, I suppose that only happens to me…" After a few moments, the older brother had had enough of the man's ramblings.

"Alright, you better start talking, or I'll start carving you up with this knife pretty damn quick. Understand?" In order to emphasise his threat, and prove it wasn't an empty one, Dean traced torturous patterns mid-air with the tip of the blade, handling it as nonchalantly as possible. The man's expression promptly grew 200% more fearful (even with the sunglasses) as he watched the moonlight reflect sinisterly off the knife. When he spoke, his voice was several octaves higher.

"Oh, uh, well, er, I don't think that, er, that's really necessary, do you? Aha, I'll tell you what you like, just don't… Just, put the knife away, yes? I'm as confused as you are about these whole shenanigans, I'm sure we can talk it out…" The man suddenly got far more edgy as he frantically searched for an excuse not to be killed; all he wanted at that moment was to get away from such strange and violent men and get back to the Ritz, where he could simply participate in a pleasant conversation with his dear friend Aziraphale, but unfortunately, life doesn't work like that. Realising he was actually going to have to explain himself – since he had merely been stalling before – the demon sighed.

"Okay. Well. My name is Anthony J Crowley, and I think I'm in the wrong place, or time. Something is definitely wrong here."

"You don't say…" Dean muttered under his breath sarcastically, but then a certain phrase caught his attention. "Hang on – did you say Crowley?"

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><p><strong>AN:**

**Okay, so I should probably mention this fic is set in season 6 of Supernatural, you know, the one where Crowley's all evil (but not purely evil like season 8, more megalomaniac evil) and fake-dead and chilling with Cas. Yeah, I think that should clear up any confusion, if there was any, of course. Anyway, see you later!**


	5. Chapter 5

"Yes, I do believe Crowley is my name." The man (who Dean now thought to be even stranger) replied with a certain degree of sass and sarcasm, yet not quite as much as the Crowley that the Winchesters were used to.

"You can't be Crowley…" Sam finally piped up, being awake enough to understand what the situation was about, yet his brain evidently hadn't kicked into gear, due to him still not fully explaining his fairly valid point. Noticing this, the older brother filled in for him.

"Yeah, you're not the King of freaking Hell. Plus, the actual limey mook roasted months ago." Dean maintained his omnipresent use of slang, which tended to increase when he spoke to new people, just to confuse them, really. It definitely worked, especially with the man's British dialect.

"Um, I'm not entirely sure what you're saying to me, however, I can assure you I'm not the King of Hell. In fact, I barely make the local council… You clearly have me confused with someone else." Although the demon appeared to be telling the truth, Dean still didn't trust him entirely; the Winchesters had had enough run-ins with demons previously in their lives to trust a new one on sight, especially if he was claiming to share a name with the dead King of Hell.

"So if you're saying you're not Crowley – well, at least the Crowley we know – then who are you?" Sam asked the most relevant question that could be asked at that moment as he also glared suspiciously at the demon.

"Sorry, but I'm just as wary of you as you are of me. You're going to have to answer a couple of my questions first…" Crowley replied, reluctant to submit to what he thought were barbarians. Naturally, Dean immediately refused, almost as an instant reflex.

"No way-"

"Hey, hey, let's hear what he has to say first, okay?" Sam interrupted his brother, extending a hand out that hovered a couple of centimetres away from Dean's chest, as a sort of restraining gesture. The older Winchester glared back at his brother, yet huffed in agreement. Turning to the demon and addressing him personally, Sam laid down the rules. "Alright, we'll trade questions and answers. We're not gonna tell you some things, obviously, but-"

"Try most things-" Dean muttered under his breath, clearly disapproving of his brother's plan, however remaining passive aggressive for now.

"Oh no, I understand completely." Crowley cut in before Sam could say any more, nodding his head in consonance to his terms in order to prove his complacency. "You'll likely find me all the more strange after I ask, but it had to be said – what year are we in?"

"Right, that's it-" Dean began to rise from his seat and violently hauled open the driver's door to the Impala, but before he could go anywhere or do anything rash, Sam grabbed a handful of his brother's jacket and dragged him back to his seat.

"DEAN! Quit acting up, will you? We said we'd hear him out, so we will, damnit!"

"Well, technically, _you_ said we'll hear him out, not me…" Mumbling again, the older brother trailed off when he saw Sam pulling his infamous disapproving face at him. Sam then turned back around to face the demon and blatantly answered his question, partly to get somewhere in their conversation, but mostly just to spite Dean.

"It's 2010. Okay, our turn. How did you get here?"

"2010…" Crowley mouthed, looking extremely perplexed, yet as if he was reaching a conclusion; like when someone is trying to solve a jigsaw, and they only have a few pieces left, so they know they're almost there, but can't quite figure it out yet. Then, rather abruptly, he seemed to snap back to reality. "How did I get here? I honestly have no idea. Er… Tell me more about the Crowley you know. You say he's a demon?"

"Basically. He was a class-A douchebag and we killed him for it – Well, actually our friend did, but hey. Uh… I can't think of a question. Dean?"

"Yeah, I got one – what's with the sunglasses, Neo?"

"I thought I told you. My name is Anthony Crowley. And… I guess I like them. Okay, did your 'Crowley' happen to know an angel by the name of Aziraphale?"

"He never mentioned them, no."

"Alright, I think that's enough for our little Q&A. How about you get the hell out of my car and we take this elsewhere?"

"Fine by me." At those final words, Anthony J Crowley simply disappeared from the back seat of the Impala, leaving Dean all the more infuriated, and Sam all the more baffled.


	6. Chapter 6

After promptly teleporting out of Dean's uncomfortably comfortable vehicle, Anthony J Crowley found himself in an even stranger abandoned warehouse of sorts. He had attempted to teleport back to his own time, and he hoped to be back at the Ritz with his dear Aziraphale, however it seemed that Beelzebub thought he hadn't quite learnt his lesson yet. Confused as to where he currently was, Crowley stumbled around in a shaky and tentative circle, taking in his surroundings: white brick walls; a disturbing-looking metal surgical table complete with chains and leather bindings; a washed-out grey concrete floor adorned with splashes of red (Crowley assumed it wasn't simply red paint or tomato sauce) at regular intervals. The demon began to get the feeling that he had gone from the frying pan into the fire. However, his growing sense of anxiety at the sight of his new scene didn't have time to grow exponentially before a figure strode nonchalantly into the room. The man was utterly smothered in black clothing (thank Go- thank Sa- thank _someone_ – Crowley didn't really fancy seeing a man _without_ clothes on); black trousers, black shirt, black tie, black suit jacket, black shoes. Never in his entire existence – of around 6000 years – had the demon seen anyone so dedicated to being completely clad-in-black. The odd fellow had to be applauded; internally, of course.

While Crowley was mentally summing up the man in front of him, he realised that he could see his true form, which was actually a demon. Despite being a demon himself, Crowley definitely felt worse off in the presence of another, especially after his whole ordeal with Hastur and Ligur. However, the certainly-not dynamic duo had been undeniably idiotic, yet the man before him clearly knew his place in life, which was naturally superior to others, since he (possibly unintentionally, but likely not) was surrounded by an ever-present air of superciliousness.

"Ah, what an unpleasant surprise. It seems I have unwanted company." The man's deep gravelly voice slid through the atmosphere and crawled towards Crowley's sensitive ears, dripping with slightly out-of-date sarcasm.

"You're-you're a demon!" Mentally kicking himself for saying the dumbest thing in the dumbest ever voice, Crowley reasoned with himself by thinking it was the only thing he could think of at that moment.

"And you're trying my non-patience. Who are you, pray tell? This is a no-demons-allowed zone." The other demon went on, his voice almost putting Crowley into a trance.

"B-but- you're a demon." Those were the only words Crowley could force from his satanic lips yet again, however this time, he did have a vaguely valid point and a different tone of voice with which to express them.

"Try King of Hell. But demon just about passes the test." The 'King of Hell' answered back, almost like a stroppy teenager that wanted to prove his worth to mocking siblings that had previously doubted him, yet he somehow managed to maintain his sense of supreme dignity. Crowley was distantly impressed by the man, however did remain slightly terrified of him. But something did click when he claimed to be the 'King of Hell', relating to his recent conversation with the Winchesters.

"Hang on… The King of Hell… You're Crowley?"

"In the overwhelmingly attractive flesh. I can give you an autograph, if you like. In fact, especially for you, I'll carve it into your pathetic heart. Are we done now?" Crowley – that is, 'Sauntered Vaguely Downwards', past-Crowley – was still rather shocked by Crowley's – that is, 'Hello boys', future Crowley – intense hostility. On the other hand, he admitted to himself that he would probably also act inimical to some degree towards an arbitrary stranger who had just appeared in his home (was it his home? It was hard to tell).


	7. Chapter 7

"Hang on a minute… I think I understand what's going on here." Crowley – that is, Bentley-on-fire Crowley – came to a sudden realisation.

"So do I – an ignorant and bumbling idiotic demon has somehow found its way into MY secret hideout, and is persistent in being IRRITATING and GETTING IN MY WAY! Now, although I detest passing up on the opportunity to torture a damned soul, you'll have to leave my domain instead. I have important research to do, like torture some other monstrous souls." Crowley – that is, King-of-sass Crowley – alternated his tone between darkly calm and thunderous, which always resulted in his victims being terrified, since he appeared to have an intense case of split personality. But Crowley – that is, Aziraphale's boyfriend Crowley – wasn't letting up yet.

"Look, this is going to sound extremely strange, and from what I've seen of you so far, you're either going to be intrigued by what I am about to say, or you're simply going to stab me in the heart, but at least hear me out, alright?" Trembling slightly with nervous anticipation and vague fear, Crowley –that is, Good Omens-oh screw it (from now on, I'll refer to Good Omens Crowley as Anthony, and Supernatural Crowley as Crowley) – gazed at _Crowley_, awaiting an indication for him to go on. When Crowley didn't respond, Anthony continued, regardless.

"Okay, so I was sent into the year 2010 – this year – from twenty years previous by Beelzebub. And now I just happen to be sent to a bizarre warehouse – no offense – where I meet another demon called Crowley, same as me. It all adds up, don't you see? I am you from the past!"

"Well you're clearly psychotic, but-"

"Please, just look, will you? I know it sounds rather insane, but it's the only thing that makes sense right now." After a moment of silence, while Anthony let the news sink in, Crowley spoke up.

"Fine. I'm listening. But I'm sure I wasn't that lame twenty years ago." The King of Hell seemed to take Anthony's inexplicable theory very well indeed, however Anthony was rather perturbed by Crowley's apparent lack of memory; he was pretty sure that he wasn't just being sarcastic this time. Then again, Anthony didn't have the chance to comment before Crowley butted in once again.

"So. I guess we'd better start making tracks, before my business partner finds you here." Anthony simply stood there, acting rather shell-shocked at Crowley's proposal.

"Well? Are you just going to stand there, or do you want to get back to your own time?" At that, Anthony's legs finally kicked into gear, and he began to follow the King of Hell (fancy that!), who had already began strolling away at a rapid pace, out of the vaguely creepy room.

After no longer than a second of following Crowley, Anthony persisted in bombarding the easily-irritated demon with an endless array of questions.

"I sort of got the impression that you didn't like me. How come you want to help me now?"

"I guess I can be a soft touch sometimes. You irritated me at first, but I must admit, you've kind of grown on me. Rather like myself, I suppose."

"That's because you are me, you bloody fool."

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Oh, nothing… Just, er – just muttering to myself about how much of a fool I am, to not have trusted your, um, authority straight away…"

"Ah. That's what I like to hear." Crowley flashed a disturbing grin at Anthony that practically screamed out the message 'yes-I-heard-your-insult-and-if-you-dare-do-it-again-I'll-rip-your-face-off-and-use-it-as-toilet-paper.'

"So, uh… do I really become the King of Hell?"

"Evidently, yes."

"And I get to do as I wish and sack/demote demons at my own will?"

"Well I don't just let people walk all over me – who do you think I am?"

"And Aziraphale? How is he?"

"Never heard of him. Now will you quit badgering me with questions? I don't care if you're me from the past; I'll still gladly crush every bone in your body and make you swallow out-of-date angel blood if you don't stop annoying me." Anthony hastily shut his mouth and bit his tongue to prevent him from asking more probing inquiries. He didn't want to be killed just yet. He still had a date to finish.


	8. Chapter 8

As the two Crowleys walked out of the back door of the abandoned warehouse (well, different degrees of walking; the King of Hell strolled confidently with an air of drama, whereas Anthony hobbled awkwardly, stooping over slightly), the conversation died down a little, mostly due to Crowley's outburst. Anthony had no clue as to where on earth (or Hell) they were going, however Crowley soon answered his unspoken inquiry.

"You need to get back to your own time, I need to get on with my… research… and we're both clearly irritating the high Hell out of each other, so I'm sending you back tout suite. Not that I have to explain myself to the likes of you. It'll just make this easier."

"You seem to keep repeatedly forgetting that I _am _you-"

"Exhibit A of 'Reasons Why I'm Right About You Being Irritating.'" The King of Hell blatantly claimed, refusing to mutter under his breath and be subtle like his past self. "Anyway, I need to accumulate a few items in order to make a spell. So you need to stay out of my way for a few moments. Are we clear?" The demons were now in a small paved space outside that appeared to be an ex-parking lot, and Crowley turned to face his (hopefully) temporary companion head-on. Anthony instinctively ducked, but Crowley didn't harm him, surprisingly. He simply sighed at his incompetence, clicked his fingers and disappeared.

"Well that's rather rude!" Speaking to thin air, the remaining confused and infuriated demon spun around, huffing about his unwilling helper's abrupt departure. However, a mere couple of seconds later, the King of Hell reappeared, his suit jacket newly adorned with a few rips and tears, bearing some odd-looking herbs and spices.

"These were a bugger to gather, so you'd better appreciate it." Crowley stated, still appearing to be particularly annoyed as he advanced suspiciously on his younger self. Anthony, just as wary, stepped a few paces back and raised his eyebrows in question. Sighing (again) and rolling his eyes, Crowley justified his actions.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you – mostly because I have no wish to harm my own awesome self – but either we can walk back to the warehouse with you chattering in my earholes the whole way, or I can zap us back and you get home quicker. So what's it gonna be?" Anthony reluctantly sighed in response (honestly, there'd be no oxygen left in the air after they'd done being… done with each other), and moved slightly back towards the half-smiling demon.

"Thought so. Shall we?" The King of Hell placed a hand (not too rough yet not too gentle either) on Anthony's shoulder and clicked his fingers. A moment later, they were back in the warehouse, and Crowley was preparing the ingredients of the spell, which consisted of basically mixing the herbs together in a Satanic-looking bowl, complaining while he did it.

"Honestly, you have to everything yourself these days." The King of Hell muttered, not aiming his snide comments at Anthony directly, but inferring he did, in fact, blame him. He continued to talk to himself while he carried on concocting the potion. "Okay… got that, got that… Just one more thing-" Promptly, Anthony felt a hand rapidly grab his own hand and slice through his palm with a previously concealed short blade.

"Ow!" The younger demon exclaimed, more out of irritation rather than pain, as he clutched his arm close to his chest, glaring at Crowley.

"What? Oh, come on – what's a demonic spell without some sort of blood?" The King replied innocently, staring with raised eyebrows at Anthony, as if that would get him off the hook. "Did you really think it would be three taps of your shoes and a reiteration of 'there's no place like home?' Please."

"Fine. Whatever you say. Just, get on with it, if you will." Anthony snapped back, a little more aggressively than was intended. And that he did.


	9. Chapter 9

With no hesitation apparent, the King of Hell dipped two fingers into the concoction of the various herbs (all of which included an angel's feather, tears of a dragon and a pinch of the sands of time) along with Anthony's blood and began to smudge it onto a back door in an extremely particular pattern. It looked very much like Satanism to Anthony, but then again, they were both demons (the same demon, actually), so such things were a way of life to them. Once Crowley had finished his masterpiece, he stepped back from the door a few paces, tilted his head at various angles in order to check if it was a hundred per cent accurate, then gestured for Anthony to take his place in front of the door. When the younger demon (naturally) declined, yet again reluctant to step forward, Crowley exhaled, clearly trying to keep as patient as possible (or rather, non-patient, since patience wasn't one of the King's… non-virtues), then proceeded to place an unforgiving arm around his shoulders and forcefully walk him forwards. When Crowley saw Anthony staring confusedly at him with a specific air of annoyance, the King of Hell rolled his eyes and began to explain.

"I'm guessing you're going to throw another hissy fit at me if I don't tell you what's going on, which won't exactly help my blood pressure – or, your blood pressure. Now, I don't know how much you know about blood spells, but, anyway, this is one of them which will enable you to get back to your own time, hopefully in the right place too. It won't take a minute, but when I finish reciting a certain Enochian invocation, all you have to do is open the door and step through. Got it?" His tone was vaguely patronising, and tainted with sarcasm, but Anthony was almost used to it by now, since he realised that Crowley likely spoke to everyone like that. Anthony nodded in response, and gestured for him to go on with the spell.

"Kah-nee-lah puh-goh, kah-nee-lah puh goh…" Although Crowley's voice sounded very much the same, it had an eerie monotonous sense to it as he chanted through the adequate speech required for the blood spell to work sufficiently. As he approached the end of his speech, the sigil drawn on the door began to glow a fiery orange, its intensity near-blinding Anthony, which forced him to avert his gaze temporarily. The King of Hell was not so weak-willed, however; instead, he embraced the fire and stared deep into the heart of it, making his own eyes appear to burn with a profound obstinateness. Once Crowley realised that Anthony hadn't yet obeyed his specific instructions, he turned to him fiercely.

"NOW! You have to go now, or else you can't get back, you moron!" He yelled ferociously, glaring at Anthony as if he were stupid. Evidently Crowley though so. The King reached out a hand to haul open the door, and began attempting to shove his younger self through it, but Anthony rebelled.

"WAIT!" Unusually, Crowley actually listened to him, but still remained clutching onto his the sleeve of his suit jacket. Anthony continued, still in disbelief about the fact that the King of Hell was paying any attention to him. "I have to know – do you remember me at all? Do you remember what you were like, what you did in your past life? The time we spent with Aziraphale, our angel, in the Ritz? That I did try to be evil, but inevitably I was a good person, deep down?"

"Shut up, you bloody idiot!"

"NO! Answer me, just this once!"

Crowley appeared to be genuinely considering Anthony's words for a moment, delving deep down into his distant memory for a glimpse of the things his younger self had mentioned, but nothing significant came to mind. "I remember many angels, but only ones I have tortured. There's no good in me! We're demons, you and I – to the last drop! Redemption is impossible for creatures like us. You might as well embrace the evil and use it as an advantage, before someone seizes your vulnerabilities and uses it against you. It's the best way. I don't know what you did in your time, if abiding by my advice would keep you like yourself, or like me. Perhaps you have no choice, in the long run. But whatever you do, just maintain your free will. Don't let any other nescient demons of higher authority drag you down with them. That was the key to my own success. Now go!"


	10. Chapter 10

Just as Anthony was about to step through the door and back to his own time, a ball of blood-red flame erupted from the ground and made its home in front of the two versions of the same demon. Crowley's expression was a combinations of being extremely perplexed and also ticked off, however Anthony simply sighed 'oh, bugger', also appearing to be irritated, yet with a significant aura of fear. The creature that stood before the demons was evidently Beelzebub, which was why Anthony was naturally concerned for his well-being, seeing as he wasn't exactly in his good books. In fact, it was quite the opposite, since Anthony had been purposely avoiding Hell ever since the Apocalypse that had begun on that Saturday afternoon. It seemed like such a long time ago now – well, Anthony had technically time travelled, so at the time it was twenty years later – and Anthony just wanted to get back to his angel, and for his life to return to normal without any intervention from Fallen Angels or Princes of Hell (of which Beelzebub was both). On the other hand, he knew he couldn't rush his meeting with Beelzebub, as the demon would likely punish him all the more and keep him apart from Aziraphale. So, he decided to make a little small talk, yet it didn't last long.

"Beelzebub. How… nice *cough* to see you." Anthony was curious, therefore used his opportunity to make a few inquiries after the generic niceties. "May I ask why you brought me here?"

"I thought that wazz obviouzzz – you needed to be taught a lezzzon." Beelzebub replied, his voice still sounding exactly the same as it had in the Apocalypse – like many flies buzzing simultaneously.

"Someone needs speech therapy… Can't you just leave? Kinda busy here, mate." Unable to cope with more infuriating visitors and itching to get back to his normal daily life (not much had changed there, then), Crowley interjected and addressed the Prince of Hell (not Gavin McLeod, that would be awkward since he's Crowley's son – I can assure you Beelzebub isn't in any way related – at least I don't think so…), honestly not giving a damn if his tone appeared incompetent or considering who he was speaking to. In the end, it didn't matter anyway, as both Anthony and Beelzebub blanked him, out of sheer ignorance.

"Rude." The King of Hell commented, and was ignored once again. Beelzebub continued speaking without acknowledging him in the slightest – well, he was addressing Crowley's younger self, so technically he _was_ acknowledging him, but anyway.

"Azz you have guezzed, thizz man iz you in the future. He iz who you will become if you continue dizzobeying uzz. He haz been tortured and had hiz memory wiped, so haz had our orderzz forced upon him anyway." _Ah, so that's why he doesn't remember Aziraphale!_ Anthony had a mental 'Eureka!' moment, as everything fell into place while Beelzebub was talking. Or rather, buzzing. "If you do not obey when you are zzzent back, thizz iz what will happen…" Ending his sentence on a particularly ominous note, Beelzebub seemed to expect some kind of promise of submission or something, as he didn't disappear or carry on speaking. However, Anthony wasn't going to make a promise he couldn't keep. Utter surrender to Hell, becoming their basic slave yet again would ensure that he would never see Aziraphale again. Sure, he ran the risk of being caught and brainwashed, just like Crowley had, but that was a risk he was willing to take for his angel. Besides, there had to be another option, even if it meant stalling for eternity.

"Well I do apologize, but I have a dinner date to return to, for which I am twenty years late!" At that, Anthony simply saluted to Crowley, who rolled his eyes back yet with a hint of a smile playing on his lips, huffed at Beelzebub, and charged through the door. With a bright flash of white light, he was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

In the warehouse, Beelzebub screeched painfully, his illegible words saying something along the lines of 'damn you, demon!', before melting back into the ground in a rapid burst of red flame. It was evident he wouldn't be back anytime soon. The King of Hell did worry slightly for his younger self, but he did vaguely trust him; if he was anything like his own self, he was awesome enough to make the rightfully destructive decisions.

Glancing down at the ground, Crowley immediately noticed a giant burn mark from which Beelzebub had entered and exited, and also the bowl of remaining ingredients from the blood spell had spilt onto the floor, causing a red stain. Both of which would be a pain to get rid of.

"Great. Well, that's enough dealing with hell creatures for today." He sighed, turning away from the door through which Anthony had disappeared and returning to his 'research.'

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><p>After being utterly enveloped by a flash of all-encompassing for a moment, Anthony promptly found himself stumbling out through the door of the Ritz. Momentum shoved him forwards so he ended up sprawled in a rather undignified manner on the concrete pavement outside. The dishevelled demon took a good few seconds to get his bearings and generally pull himself together after his time travelling ordeal, yet when he did, he simply glanced upwards and around, realising where he was in an instant, and mentally thanking his future self for providing him with the right spell to return to his home. Not long after, a familiar voice which was tainted slightly with concern burst out not far in front of Anthony (actually, I guess I can just call him Crowley now), who remained in a heap on the ground.<p>

"Crowley, dear! You're alright! Well, it appears you are… Unless you're hurt anywhere I can't see, of course – but I suppose that's irrelevant. What happened? Where did you – was it your boss, or perhaps an angel? Oh dearie me, it wasn't the Antichrist again, was it? Well, that would be a stupid idea, of course, not being of the ineffable plan, but-"

"Thirteen seconds."

"Sorry, what was that, dear?"

"Thirteen seconds – that's how long it took for you to use the word 'ineffable' in conversation."

"What?" Aziraphale seemed vaguely baffled and put out for a moment, yet continued to babble on nonetheless. "Oh, of course, yes. I do use that word excessively, don't I? Ahaha… But enough about me, what ha-" Fed up of the angel's constant flow of one-sided conversation, Crowley interrupted him, but with something a little different to words. Placing a hand on the back of Aziraphale's curly blonde head, Crowley pulled the angel's head slightly towards his own and hastily pressed their lips together. Aziraphale reacted with initial confusion, yet just began to relax into the kiss when Crowley pulled away. The demon shot up from the ground, dramatically dusted off his suit and flashed a quick grin at Aziraphale, who simply stood with his lips still slightly parted, frozen in shock and utter bewilderment – in a good way, of course. In fact, in the best was possible. The angel was practically glowing inside. Since all of the said events happened in less than two seconds, Aziraphale was naturally still reeling from surprisingly human emotions, yet Crowley continued as if nothing had occurred, and addressed his perplexed yet very dear no-longer-considered-a-friend friend.

"Sorry, dear. I just do wish you'd shut up sometimes. Now, shall we?" Holding out his arm, Crowley gazed expectantly at his angel. Still verbally paralysed, Aziraphale remained silent, but responded by gingerly reaching out an arm and linking it with the demons'. As the couple strolled back into the Ritz, Aziraphale could no longer subdue his curiosity.

"So, uh, dear… What did actually happen?"

"I went somewhere more far away than you can comprehend, met some people – particularly one who bore a striking resemblance to myself – had to make an important decision, but none of that matters now. Let's get back to our usual table."

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><p><strong>AN:**

**And so we come to the end of this fanfic. I hope you guys enjoyed it – it was certainly pretty fun to write! Please leave a review if you liked this fic, and it would be great if you could check out some of my other ones. Thank you for your support, see you soon :)**


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